


The Couch

by Higgystar



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Higgystar/pseuds/Higgystar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl doesn't remember not having the couch. It's just always been a part of the house, something he just accepted for what it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Couch

Daryl can’t remember them not having the couch.

It had just been a permanent part of the furniture, old and worn with a raggedy pull out bed that was just shy of being a decent sized double. He’d heard the story countless times about it, how his dad had found it on the side of the road, about to be thrown out until he and a work buddy had carried it all the way home. Now it had never left since being placed in their room. It was a vile colour, crossed between baby shit yellow and brown, an awful tint of some old stains and a few holes and rips on the coverings.

But it worked, and as with most things in the Dixon household no one cared if it matched or looked good, so long as it did its job.

Over the years the couch had sat in their room, ratty and never quite smelling clean with the bed extended and a mass of sheets on top. It had been just Merle’s before he’d come along, not worth buying him an actual bed when the pull out worked just as well and Merle didn’t complain about it too much. Not until Daryl had come along and his older brother had realised that their two bed house just didn’t have space for the baby, especially since the couch bed took up practically half of his own room.

Mom had hushed his worries, told him not to worry about grown up matters with a bruise across her eye and a lit cigarette in her fingers as baby Daryl cried in the distance. Daryl had heard the story countless times from his father how sleeping in a drawer never hurt anyone, that he himself had slept in a drawer, so had Merle till he was three and it didn’t stunt him at all. So for the first few years of his life Daryl slept in a drawer on the floor of his parent’s room until there was no denying that the boy needed a proper bed.

Daryl can’t remember a lot of his early memories, mostly they just jumbled into yells, the smell of smoke and flinches, but he’s sure he recalls Merle hating having to share the couch bed with him. “It’ll only be for a while.” Mom had said, washing dishes, not meeting Merle’s eye when she’d explained to the fourteen year old. “Till we get you boys some bunk beds.”

A while became a few months, which grew to a year and before long they’d forgotten the promise to have their own beds. The couch became their bed and Merle’s room became the boy’s room before long, crammed with all their things mixed together and the stage of many a fight. Daryl remembers wrestling on the bed until one of the legs on the kickstand had broken, and they’d had to fix it with duct tape and some branches from the woods. Life had been simpler back then as a kid, when the worst thing he had to worry about was wetting the bed and having Merle yell at him for it.

The years had rolled on and their habits grew, evolving between them until there were some unspoken rules of the bed that carried on through them both growing up. Merle always slept on the outside edge of the bed, sandwiching Daryl between himself and the wall on his own side. They never spoke about why it had always been that way, but they both knew it, Daryl had seen enough scared animals protecting their young to know why he had to sleep next to the wall.

No kicking unless you wanted to get kicked back was simple enough and it didn’t take Daryl more than one bruised shin to learn his lesson the hard way. When he’d hit puberty he hadn’t had to ask the rules about how sharing a bed would play into that. Merle had of course teased him mercilessly when he’d had no control of his own body, causing yet more fights and the silent understanding that certain things were to be done in private, away from the shared bed. It was probably one rule neither of them had broken.

When he’d been younger and the nights had been freezing and full of yelling and screams, Daryl had taken to curling against his older brother, only feeling safe when Merle’s larger hand would rest on the back of his head and hold him close. As they got older such things stopped of course but every so often when the tears of their mother were unbearably loud through the too thin walls of their home, Daryl would fall asleep with Merle’s larger hand resting on his hair.

They got older, Dad got drunker and more angry and before long Mom was dead and if Daryl pressed his face hard enough into the worn fabric of the couch he could almost smell her perfume mixed in with the scent of ash and smoke. Merle stopped coming home so often, whether he was drunk and passed out somewhere Daryl didn’t know but he didn’t ask either and instead learned to think of the bed as his own. When Merle was in juvie he’d simply curl up tighter against the wall and pretend he didn’t hear the heavy footsteps heading toward their room, if he closed his eyes hard enough sometimes he could pretend that Merle’s hand was in his hair.

He begins to spend more time out of the house, away from his dad and learning about the woods. Though he hates going into town and being stared at by everyone else he’d had sell the meat somewhere and before he knew it he was a hunter and bringing game to be sold for a half decent price. It wasn’t much, not technically a job but it was money that was his and his alone. He kept it stashed down the side of the couch, hidden from his dad’s greedy hands and there for some hopeful dream of escape that he knew wasn’t really possible.

Years passed and the couch remained his bed, still crammed in the smaller room and still very much a part of his life. Some nights he’d come home to find Merle already there, passed out on his side of the bed snoring loudly with his arm hanging off the edge of the too thin would be mattress. He’d just climb over him like he’d used to when they were kids and curl up against the wall, ignoring the fact that two grown men really didn’t fit comfortably on the couch bed.

Sometimes Merle would stay for a while, cause more fights, more problems but bring more money their way. When he turns up with a motorbike one day Daryl doesn’t question where he got that much money from, just helps his brother tweak at the machine over a couple of beers before passing out on top of the sheets in their bed. He remembers sometimes that Merle is a half decent brother when he wants to be, helping him buy his truck, handing down any clothing he didn’t want anymore and being the only person in the world who gave two shits whether he had eaten in the past week. Of course those memories were interspersed with the bad ones. Ones where he’d had to practically drag Merle home from some run down shithole and sit up with his back pressed against the wall as his older brother came down from his high, shouting, punching and puking until he’d passed out.

Soon enough the drugs got Merle in prison, then into the army and then out again with a dishonourable discharge. Daryl had never seen his brother look more proud of himself than when he’d come home that night, stinking of whiskey and throwing himself of his side of the bed as he lit up a cigarette, chuckling as he regaled the story to a half asleep Daryl. He hadn’t really listened much, too busy tugging sheets tighter over his back to hide himself from Merle’s sight.

As he gets older and the reports of some kind of virus take over the news he wonders why he never bothers to buy himself an actual bed. He had the money now and what with the old man six feet under he wouldn’t even have to be yelled at for throwing out something that could still be used. A grown man should have his own bed and though he could just sleep in his parent’s old bed in the other, bigger bedroom, something about that just didn’t feel right. Huffing to himself he’d rolled over the face the wall, closing his eyes and wondering why a part of him didn’t want to sleep in a real bed, somewhere he could stretch out on properly and not have to fix with duct tape and a prayer.

He’s awoken by the sound of a door slamming, heavy footfalls through the hall and before he can fully wake himself up he’s flinching away as Merle’s fingers grab at his arms, yanking him from the bed and speaking so fast his words are jumbled. Wriggling himself free he sits on the edge of the bed, on Merle’s side as his brother looks frantic, throwing things into bags and grabbing ammo to fill his pockets with. Daryl wonders why he’s got the hunting rifle out and watches in confusion as Merle babbles to him, something about the viruses, a bunch of dumb dead bastards and getting out of here.

Originally Daryl had thought that Merle was high, the news mixing with the drugs and causing him to hallucinate ridiculous things that he felt the need to act upon. But when he snorts in derision and flops back onto his side of the bed to try and get back to sleep Merle slaps him across the face, hard. That causes a fight, the couch bed creaking beneath them as they wrestle, Merle pinning him down and yelling about him needing to listen and get his ass into gear. When the old support frame finally gives out after all those years and they both sink to the floor with a crunch, Daryl begins to listen properly.

It’s not long before they’re in his truck and barrelling down the roads in the direction of Atlanta, Merle behind the wheel and Daryl chewing on his thumb as he watches out of the window. His brother hadn’t been high, it was all true. People were dying and then not staying dead, biting other people so the cycle could start again. He’d had to kill some of them, watch as blood spattered over his crossbow bolts and they kept coming with arrows in their chests before succumbing to a headshot. Daryl didn’t know whether to be disgusted with himself for not feeling remorse or proud that he hadn’t let his emotions control him. The roads are full of screaming, they have to drive around some pockets of chaos and death; Daryl locks the door and pretends not to see.

He’s never been far out of their hometown before, never had a reason to leave nor the money to do so. There had been dreams of escaping, seeing more of the world and getting to explore everything it had. Right now it seemed more terrifying than ever and he wished he was curled up on the couch against the wall with Merle between himself and the rest of the world.

Though over the years he’d gotten used to sleeping alone, he had to admit that right now when shit had hit the fan, he was grateful to have someone else there to watch his back. The cab of the truck was not comfortable in the least but Merle wanted to carry on driving, cover as much distance whist others slept away the night and Daryl had no wish to sleep besides their supplies in the bed of the truck. So he’d curled up against the window, shutting his eyes against the hell outside and tried to sleep. He didn’t wake up with a hand in his hair, but the jacket tucked around him helped a little to ease the panic.

The Atlanta group is almost too much for him to cope with, so many different people to be around and they all seemed to want to talk all the time but about the wrong things. Fuck they didn’t seem to get what was happening to the world, they were making the kids do math as if algebra would save their lives and still ironing clothes as if the dead would spare you for having a nice straight crease. He spent a lot of time in the woods hunting or sitting on the outskirts with Merle. Their tent was away from the main camp, far enough that they could escape from an attack without being dragged down but close enough to still be considered members.

Daryl was used to sleeping rough, but it seemed no matter where he lay there was always a rock digging into him somewhere. As usual Merle had no problem snoring away beside him, dead to the world and not caring if his little brother would be cranky the next day from lack of sleep. He hated this. Being somewhere he didn’t know, surrounded by people he didn’t know or trust and lost in a world that had no future anymore. Merle snorts in his sleep, rolling onto his side and when a hand reaches out to lay upon Daryl’s head, he figures that it could be worse.

Of course luck had never shined down on the Dixons and it got worse a lot quicker than he’d thought it would.

Merle was gone. Not even dead, but just gone. Missing without a trace and this time Daryl knew he wasn’t out getting drunk and passing out somewhere. The worst part was not knowing. It’s not until they get to the CDC that he’s alone and willing to actually think about it. He drinks to numb the pain and finds it doesn’t really help him get any sleep at all. The bed just feels too small and too empty.

The days drag on and he has other things to focus on, things to do to keep his mind occupied and away from Merle and the end of the world. Sophia is lost and he is determined to find her, return that little girl to her mother, maybe even get accepted into the group if he was lucky. It wasn’t that he wanted to be in the group, but numbers were safer and he really just didn’t want to be alone again.

The only reason he is able to sleep in the too big, too plush bed at Hershel’s farm is the exhaustion of the day seeping through his body. That and the fact he doesn’t want to dwell on the still missing Sophia and his failure to find her. The next night he leaves the bed and is more than happy to make do with the tent again, even if his side protested by sends flares of pain up. The bedroom had been too big, the bed too homey and nowhere near the wall. He actually slept half decently on those nights until they’d opened the barn.

Everything had spiralled since then. Now Sophia was found and buried Merle had taken up residence in his mind again, poking and prodding as to why his brother wasn’t out looking for him half a hard. The way Daryl saw it he only had one choice that didn’t leave him alone in a dangerous world and looking for someone who wasn’t potentially even there anymore. He stayed and he tried and he can’t quite remember when he started to actually give a shit about these people, the group, his people. It was probably around the time they began to sleep as a group in one room and he finally started to get some much-needed rest.

The prison was a God send in so many ways. It gave them hope for one thing, hope for a future that wouldn’t consist of running everyday and wishing for a safe place to sleep for a few hours. But it was still a prison and the cells still made him feel on edge, too closed in and trapped like he was suffocating. So he slept out in the open, on the perch where he could stretch out and bolt if he had to. It wasn’t exactly comfortable but it worked well enough for him.

Things were tense for a while, especially with Rick not quite there anymore, the new woman appearing and the threat of Woodbury hanging over them. Honestly there was more than one occasion when he’d thought this was the beginning of the end for them, they’d finally met their fate and he’d be damned if he was going down without a fight. They struggled through, and before he knew it Merle was back. There were no emotional words, no comfort or mentions of how much he’d missed his goddamn brother. Instead after their escape and then return to the prison things started back up as they usually did when Merle returned; he just went with it.

It was as if he’d simply woken up to find Merle back home again, like all the times before when he’d just popped up without any kind of explanation and carried on as if he’d never been away. Of course things were different now, he was different in so many ways but Merle was still Merle and things weren’t as easy to ignore as they used to be. Not when he actually gave a shit about the people Merle was pissing off.

So he took one for the team and became his brother’s keeper, giving up the freedom of the perch to bunk in the same cell as him for peace of mind. The locked door felt as if it was staring at his back as he faced the wall and tried to sleep. Merle was on the bunk beneath him, scratching at the wall and adding his name to the list that was engraved into the brickwork. At the chuckle from beneath him he sighs a little, clearly not going to get any sleep until Merle deemed it acceptable for him to do so. “What?”

He can almost hear Merle’s grin in his words when he reveals what’s so amusing. “Finally got those bunk beds Mom always talked about.”

Daryl finds himself smiling at that, blinking open his eyes and laughing a little along with Merle at the memories that dredged up. “Yeah took a few years.” He replies, rolling so he can hang his head off the side of the bed and see his brother below him. His hair is a lot longer than before, tangled and swaying as he hangs there for a while. “I hate them.” He admits quietly.

“Me too baby brother.” Merle agrees, stretching out on the cramped bed and grunting when his foot hits the metal post. “Aint nowhere near as good as that old couch.” Daryl silently agrees and watches as Merle levers himself off of the lower bunk. “Not gonna get any sleep on that thing.” He growls out, dragging the thin mattress across the floor and dumping it out in the open. Daryl watches him flop back down, stump behind his head as a makeshift pillow as his brother gets himself comfortable. “Much better.”

It doesn’t look much better really, the only difference is that Merle isn’t so cramped and can stretch his legs out properly. Still he takes notice of how Merle’s positioned himself in the cell, not against the wall but far enough away that Daryl’s sure he’s almost exactly where his side of the couch would be. There’s no verbal invite, Merle’s not like that, but he doesn’t protest when Daryl jumps off the top bunk and yanks his own thin mattress off of it.

He doesn’t need to look at Merle to know he’s smirking, looking cocky as ever as he tosses the mattress between his brother and the wall. Climbing over Merle he settles himself facing the wall, wrapping the blanket around himself and closing his eyes at the familiar position. It’s more comfortable like this, he doesn’t feel as trapped in the cell as before. Yes he’s against the wall, if anything he should feel more trapped than before, but it’s just too familiar to feel unsafe especially when he can sense Merle behind him, watching his back and shielding him from anything that could hurt him.

There was no one here that would do that to him, the only monsters left anymore were the ones roaming the fields snarling and eating the flesh of the dead. He had nothing to worry about, but having Merle there still made him feel safer all the same. Daryl lets his eyes close again, falling asleep with a smile on his face when Merle’s fingers tangle themselves in his hair.

Things were finally starting to feel like home again.


End file.
